Nepali Wanderer

Just a few minutes ago, as I entered a room, I noticed a cricket ball (a tennis ball) lying on the table. In less than a moment, I performed an automated action: the ball in my hand, a backhand wrist movement, followed by a bowling action. That was my body recalling Warne, and my own childhood.

It’s fascinating how memory works. Just a ball lying around can trigger your body’s recall, and once a thread is unleashed, it triggers a flood of other memories. With a twinge of nostalgia, it prompted me to watch the 2005 Andy Strauss wicket on YouTube, which then made me reminisce about two phases of my life. Firstly, my life almost 20 years ago, as a schoolboy juggling study load with watching cricket. And secondly, my current life, or precisely the time around when Warnie passed away.

We love to rewind our lives through selected moments – those precious few that transform into indelible memories. Even among them, the majority are filled with significance, often defined by their direct influence on final outcomes. Yet, there exist moments that transcend mere impact and are etched in our memories for their sheer brilliance. Shane Warne’s wicket of Andrew Strauss is one such moment for me. I still vividly remember that day, jumping off my seat in pure wonder and awe, and interestingly, the day afterward too.

As it was the last over of the day, I had to wait almost 15 hours for the next Warnie over, which only intensified the anticipation a hundredfold. The funny thing is, I had my 8th-grade school result the next day. Even when I was receiving caustic remarks from teachers, my mind was elsewhere, miles away, at Edgbaston Stadium in the UK. I could barely wait for Nepali time around 3 PM.

Australia eventually lost the match by 2 runs. It seemed like Warnie’s moment of magic didn’t matter. Except it did. For it still does. And it always will. Just now, I tried to think of other sporting moments of similar magnitude in terms of pure awe, and I could think of a few (like Ronaldo’s overhead kick against Juventus, or Rooney’s against Man City). Yet, I was crystal clear about the distinction, about Warnie’s moment being the most awe-inspiring sporting moment of my life. Of course, the moment mattered more to me, for Warnie was my favourite cricketer growing up. And that one moment epitomised Shane Warne, the cricketer. Beyond outcomes. Beyond stats. Pure genius. Full of life.

Fast forward 17 years, it was Warnie’s end of life. Obviously, I was saddened and shocked when I heard the tragic news. But moments later, I became sadder for another reason: That I wasn’t as sad as I expected to be. I realised I had long moved on, as I hadn’t been following cricket for almost 10 years. I was surprised and saddened by my own callousness, and the realisation of how it is the same for everyone. Of course, it’s a normal insight; people move on, life happens, etc., etc. But when I delve deeper, it almost prompts me to think about the incident from the lens of detachment. Instead of just treating it as normal, should I even treat it as a milestone in practicing detachment?

Introspection can be a devil and a saviour simultaneously. Maybe you’re just overthinking about some non-stuff stuff, or maybe you’re getting to know more about yourself and your life. One thing is for sure, as I just found out (again): No matter how much you move on with your life, people from your past are always going to be a part of you. Maybe you can consciously feel their presence in you. Or, maybe you are not aware of their effect on you at the unconscious level. Or, maybe you just need a cricket ball to realise their presence.

Rest in peace, Warnie. Or, even more fittingly in your case, live a colorful life as you always did, wherever you are right now. You will always be a part of me.